March 6, 2017

Tears and Letting Go



Dreams die hard. She looked at the video again. Why did he struggle. Why not just let the Cop arrest him, put his hands behind his back and know it would be alright. She is so naive, she thought a few hours later.

Tears streaming down her face, understanding taking the place of ignorance. She knew now why the boy in the video surrendered slowly, controlled with power. The cop and him in some kind of dance. The entwined lives intersected there on the pavement. The movement, the emotions, the struggle—surrending to the violence—the back and forth of relinquishing power, control.

Learning that often you don't come back. You do not go quietly home—do not pass go—not a get out of jail free card for you.

She remembered how he laughed, reminding her how they told her she was "delusional."

After working so hard all these years, a quiet life, a home, the garden tended, food in the fridge. A life that seemed to work. A marriage that seemed ok, certaintly not perfect, slowly becoming more abusive, but how much more could a poor kid from the wrongside of town want.

She knew now the other videos she use to watch would never be the same. "It is so all wonderful, we all got along so well, everyting is great, we had a great time". In some ways, she was letting go of not only her marriage, but being able to truthfully say that it really was all so great, everyting is wonderful, we all get along so well.

How many arrests before she understood that time in her life was over for good now. So frightened, she thought she would vomit in the beginning. Now finding she could write "Pig" without being so scared, say "Fuck you" with courage, basically find she was less afraid—but certaintly not complacent. More skeptical, shrewd, strong and less innocent.

Growing up on the wrongside, she learned to avoid any involvment with trouble. She hated violence, shunned doing anyting that caused her to get noticed in a bad way. Girlfriends would steal or do the the things teenagers do, but save for an occasional joint, some alcohol, dancing at the clubs, she tried her best to be a "good girl."

That good girl and the "good wife" had to be let go of now, so the woman could accept more of the reality that was intruding—sometimes forcefully into her life.

After seven arrests, she felt the need to run also. Run far away from the stuggles life was showing her, but he was't going to let her off that easy.

"Just shut up and write!" he said.

A muse that not only kids her she is delusional, but seems to think it is funny she hears his voice. Have you heard this voice for awhile? he says laughing. "Fuck you," I say. How much longer will this go on? Not quite sure, he says, but your writing aren't you?


February 9, 2017

SnowStorm and another Arrest



"If you banged on my door at 2am I would throw you in the Lake and bury you" said the Investigator.

"Can I quote you, I said."

Silently shivering—I stared at the dirty white wall I was handcuffed to.



A New Year and New projects await. After much going back and forth have decided to continue my writing here at my blog.

Need to work on my videos. Most of them have been about the harassment, but want to start some new projects and move on.

Looking at the new Nissan Sentra 2016. After my car was impounded, the deals are so good, figure I would rather give the money to Nissan than the Police Department.



hope your all well

stay warm—travel light—share the love


October 16, 2016

You're Not Crazy—He Said

You're Not Crazy—He Said

It has been so long since I had talked to someone and these words coming from a man seemed surreal. Being told you're crazy so many times a week for a number of years leaves you feeling and believing like you are—especially coming from someone you love.

Why do men do that? I say. Well, he says to keep you under their control. You sound like my hairdresser, I say. I am not gay, he says. I laugh and cry and explain that I love my hairdresser cause he can talk about his feelings and not just because he is gay and at the same time remembering that there really are men in touch with their feminine side. Men who can have a conversation about feelings and not tell you that you're crazy.

It had been so long since I had friends of my own. I still had to get used to being me again and not feeling so insecure. Like riding a bike again after so many years and being a little unsure, a little scared, but slowly it comes back and you just ride. "Sex is like that too", he says winking.

I could remember a time when men were friends and I could be myself. I had lost something when I got married. Questions started right away about where my husband was and what he was doing whenever I was out by myself, which over the years became less and less until I rarely even went out.  Mostly for work or something related to work. When I started a freelance design business my time out in a social way became even less. Well, where is he? People, both men and women would get annoyed if I didn't talk about my husband rather than myself. Somehow we all tacitly agreed to only talk about "The Men". This would assure our "good wife" status at the expense of being ourselves. The men obviously liked it and as a woman, I slowly gave way to it because the consequences of not would get me the little reprimands that came with violating the silly marriage codes that seem to become my new reality—often leaving me confused. What did he say? nothing really. I would say this somewhat exasperated, but knowing that I sort of had to check in and let it be known there was really nothing going on—really.

Silly now as I think about the slow process that eroded my sense of self and replaced it almost exclusively with my husbands. Still so serious these little roles and rules, but I am slowly learning to see how I willingly gave up parts of myself in some pursuit of being a "good wife". I try and laugh at more of them now instead of crying. This helps to clear the way for me to get more in touch with my own thoughts and life again.

To sit and chat with a man and talk about myself again was funny. To also think about having girlfriends again and go to a movie or just goof around seemed so remote and yet sad. Some lost part of my life that was finding its way back again. Just like an old friend you haven't seen in awhile. Only this old friend was me and the way I use to be with friends.

Marriage became so serious. All the fun we had dating gave way to the serious business of me being a "wife". Somehow my husband stayed "The Man" and I became a "wife". He could still be himself, but I was expected to be what he and others wanted me to be—and there were so many others. We were popular as a couple, but mostly the popularity stemmed from him and not me. I was basically his shadow or girlfriend—"the slut he picked up in a bar," I was to learn later—never the real "wife." I was full of failures; my career, my family and the glaringly obvious failure of not having children. It was over before it started, but it took me awhile to understand I would never measure up even though I had spent years trying to be a friend and the wife he and they wanted.

I had not realized that being myself had no place in my marriage anymore and never really did. Who would have thought? I certainly didn't. Being exposed to Feminism in college and slowly building a career, I wrongly assumed most men and women embraced equality. It seemed so basic, so true, so
obvious to me in many ways. Not in all ways, I still loved and liked men being men, but women were just as valuable in their own right.

We would have a partnership I thought, but over time, that idea turned into a marriage that would resemble a copy of 1950 rather than two people who were different, but equal. I certainly did my share of the work and brought much value, love, money and time to the relationship. So being "crazy" seemed so remote—so out of the ordinary that it shocked me at first with its simplicity and also its depth. How such a word could so profoundly affect my ability to be me. Each time I was me, the word was used in that lighthearted way to curtail my spontaneity, my love of life and my ability to talk about me. That is "crazy" or that sounds "crazy" or the laughing that teases you into thinking your silly.

"It is ok," he said, "to be you." "Thanks," I said—it has been awhile. Men are human beings too. They have feelings and emotions and can be friends. Well, maybe not totally cause When Harry Met Sally, he told her they basically always want to fuck you, I thought, laughing to myself.

I had male friends throughout my life or so I thought cause you know how they always want to just have sex, I said and he laughed. I prefer having the idea of their friendship even if they also want to have sex rather than the way it was after I married when the control made me feel neutered; not a woman really just basically trying to be a "good wife"—I didn't even look at men or talk to them really and thinking about sex was dangerous—godforbid talking about it.

I knew I was not crazy all along and it was nice again to be out and be me. "Out and proud," I had to laugh. Maybe you will become a lesbian, he said. I laughed again and finally felt like I could have a good time and not worry about being the good "wife"—just be me.



March 10, 2016

Having no Friends and Bars on Windows

Having no Friends and Bars on Windows

You don't have any friends, she said. I thought about her words for a minute and felt that stab of pain like you do in school when you realize that anything you do will involve being chosen to be on some team and your placement in the hierarchy of cliques in school. You come to know how you rate and how quickly you will be chosen or not. I was usually chosen, but would often feel that the whole arrangement was designed to make you feel as nervous as possible. It was nothing like just playing in the neighborhood where you just grouped together and argued about it later. Being in school took that spontaneous grouping out and replaced it with the gossip of cliques and not being able to really question some arbitrary placement that would follow you around like lint on your old sweater.

It was funny because I usually had more friends than I could keep up with. Not really a lot, but considering how busy I usually was there was always someone I hadn't caught up with. The ones I didn't catch up with right away usually ended. I preferred a more free flowing kind. The ones where you don't have to see someone for months at a time, but pick up where you left off in such a natural way you don't even realize you haven't seen them in awhile. These friendships I treasured and maintained for years until after I married and realized that these aren't the kind of friends that I would eventually wonder about as I sat in a Psych ward trying to explain why I had no friends.

No, your right I said. I have no friends, is that a problem? Knowing I was being a smartass she became increasingly annoyed. I was not admitting to being crazy and the reason was because I was one of those "loners" with no friends. You know the kind—you like being alone too much, read poetry or draw—god forbid laugh at the wrong times. Wear funny clothes, smell or are poor. I had come to see that even at my age the dark monster of "having no friends" was threatening to take me to that place where you stand naked in front of your peers and they tell you what a loser you are. I had to laugh—it had been so long.

Listen, lady I have more so-called friends than I care to talk about because it will take up the whole day and then we would not be able to talk about my not being mentally ill, I thought—but of course, I didn't say that. She would not take that too kindly. That would be a definite no-no because usually to respond with any feeling about what they tell you can result in you're being "noncooperative" so I accepted her pronouncement about the "no friends" label and made a mental note of making some new ones. The hot guy I met on the way in who flirted might just be one of those. I  laughed quietly to myself knowing I had to be careful about the whole "loner" label. Being an Artist I was used to that label applied all the time without question. I had gotten used to it over the years.

I could not really talk to men when I got married and this was kind of a shock. I often had male friends over the years. Guys to help out when I needed a sofa moved, guys I would see at parties and we would talk and laugh, brothers who usually had a group of guys hanging around, but once married this became a rare thing. It was part of being a good wife—you know—not "whoring" around with "friends" all the time. Even worse—hanging out in bars with girlfriends. I was glad to comply because somewhere along the way my freedom, career and lifestyle before had somehow turned into some slutty, drunken escapade of debauchery in another city that I came home to hide out from. Well, there was some of that, but after being exposed to feminism in college and building a career I thought it all kind of silly. Little did I know these new "friends" I had really believed in some 1950's idea of a woman not having too many friends. Where is your husband was usually the question if I ventured out alone. I got use to talking about him rather than me—talking about me often got that look that I was in fact, creating another life of drunken debauchery and slut type behavior.

Being locked up was not going to help me make friends. I looked out of the pale blue window and thought how odd life had become recently. The jail I was in had the sill painted this beautiful sky blue color. I suppose to have some sense of the sky. Some faux idea of freedom as you sit in confinement. Some faux sky to look at as the real one—broken through the bars coming only briefly. In the same way, these faux friends I had made. In jail the food was so bad I became used to either vomiting or wanting to. The constant awful smell that permeates everything in a disgusting way you come to loath. I wasn't there too long—processing they called it, on my way to the psych ward, but long enough  to realize that the friends I had now were no better than the criminals they were locking up. The faux pretending to care and lack of empathy and concerned mirrored the blue of the window. It was pretty bad—far cry from the real thing.

I am just cleaning house, I think—you know like when you're a kid and your best girlfriend tells you she doesn't want to be your friend anymore. You cry for days and wonder what you did. She sends you one of those notes in class and by lunch, you're sitting by yourself wondering how you could be so close one day and a loser the next. I laughed silently to myself and again say nothing as the Psych nurse drones on about the importance of a support network. The various groups of friends I have had over the years weave in and out of her lecture as I remember the good ones, the bad ones, and now the really awful ones. Yes, I say time to make some new friends.